


Lost Doll Returned

by NorroenDyrd



Series: And at Last I See the Light [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Crafts, Cute, Cute Ending, Cutesy, Dialogue Heavy, Dolls, Dork Inquisitor, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Hobbies, Inquisitor is Good with Kids, Josephine's Dolls, Skyhold, Slice of Life, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 05:38:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8274775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: Inquisitor Lavellan, a grim, hard-to-approach middle-aged Dalish mage, likes to spend his afternoons crafting children's toys with Warden Blackwall. But this time the task at hand is to restore a wooden puppet that has been misplaced by its owner - who is not exactly a child.





	

There have been long evenings at the common table, with a loud chorus of chewing and occasional eruptions of laughter at the juiciest parts of a yarn spun by Varric or Bull. There have been suppers at camp against the vivid background of the sunset, with Solas chasing Sera back and forth like two charcoal shadows: one snorting with laughter, and the other imploring desperately, 'Da'len, not my soup!'. But this - this is the best. All of it. The rays of sunlight pouring through the gaps in the roof in golden torrents, with tiny speckles of dust swimming in them. The familiar smell of animals in the nearby stable, and the warm breath of the earth underfoot. And most importantly, the silence. The soothing, blissful, content silence.  
  
Both of them, the wandering Warden and the aloof Dalish mage, have dedicated a large share of their lives to a ceaseless journey through the wilds, steady as the flow of a pristine forest spring, with nothing but the whispers of the trees and their own thoughts to keep them company. And thus, it is precisely the ability to pass hours on end without uttering a single word that makes them appreciate each other's presence so much. They are all nice enough to be around, their laughing, bickering, noisy companions; they have their backs in battle, and their banter makes long, arduous treks fly by unnoticed... But sometimes all that the Dalish and the Warden need is a breath of air - sometimes all that they need is a little bit of refreshing silence.  
  
They must look quite bizarre to an outsider: two greying middle-aged men, leaning over a simple but sturdy wooden table (just a few planks and stumps for legs, really), with their mouths pursed shut so tightly around the stems of their faintly smoking tobacco pipes that it must take quite some effort to unglue their lips and move the pipes to the corner of their mouth and start speaking (not that they feel particularly inclined to chat). Both busily making children's toys.  
  
It was still back in Haven that Blackwall first spotted Lavellan with his little audience - sitting on a pile of freshly sawn logs, where the trebuchets would later be assembled, and being positively crawled over by refugee children, who were up to all sorts of nonsense: pulling violently at his already pointed ears; messing up his long ginger hair and asking why it was white and yellow in places; almost poking his eyes out as they tried to figure out if his Dalish markings could be rubbed off his angular cheekbones; and pestering him with squeaky pleas to explain the meaning of the constellations that flickered in the darkening sky, and to tell them if the 'scary-pretty' green glow of the Breach would be there forever. He probably would not appreciate the comparison, but at that moment, Lavellan reminded Blackwall of an old mabari he once saw, when staying the night at a homestead in Ferelden. Normally snarling and distrustful (just like the old elf, especially at the beginning of their journeys together), she was perfectly obedient, docile even, around her pups and her owners' toddler, enduring all their tugging and prodding with barely a curl of her black, drooping lips. And her deep, incredibly intelligent eyes, which would follow strangers like the lonesome Warden with reserved, but still obvious, hostility and readiness to turn things bloody at any moment, now filled with almost human warmth and affection. The same, Blackwall observed, happened to Lavellan's eyes when he was surrounded by those curious little tots: they lost the sharp edge they always had, while at the same time filling with a sort of quiet wistfulness, perhaps even regret... Something that was all too familiar.  
  
And thus, when they settled in at Skyhold, and Blackwall got it into his head to make some gifts for these raggedy, wide-eyed boys and girls, many of whom still screamed at night when they dreamt of Haven; to remind them that they were children, first and foremost - he knew exactly whom to ask to keep him company. Especially since the elf turned out to be quite skillful with his hands.  
  
There was some snapping in Lavellan's part, of course, as the fellow tends to get all tense and suspicious when people try to be friendly with him - but eventually, he caved, the corners of his ever-tightly pressed lips lifting slightly as he must have imagined how happy the children would be. And so, here he is, toiling away by the Warden's side, with his hair tied in a loose bun at the back of his neck to keep from getting in his eyes; and with his hands flitting swiftly among woodworking tools and curling, bright-yellow wood shavings. He does not work the way Blackwall does - not in bold, assured strokes, chipping off all the extra lumber till a proud griffin, or a roaring bear, or some other mighty creature, emerges to see the light of day. Instead, he takes up small pieces of wood, and carves them with meticulous precision, shaping the most delicate, miniscule details, which will later draw sighs of awe from the little refugees - especially ones who are slightly older, and already smart enough to appreciate the time and effort put into every dainty figure the elf presents to them.  
  
This is not the first time that Blackwall and Lavellan have worked together, and during their previous  afternoons of carving, he crafted a couple of ethereal-looking princesses (or whoever they were supposed to be) with the bell-like skirts of their dresses moulded out of countless large roses; and also some stags with antler that looked like entwining tree branches (and actually had little blossoms on them); and  simpler toys, too, which he slid, rather disdainfully, across the table in Blackwall's direction when the Warden pointed out that 'The kids need to play with these, not dust them off!' (In truth, though, that remark was a rather clumsy attempt to conceal the utterly girlish enthusiasm that bubbled within Blackwall when he saw what his elven companion was coming up with).  
  
It is one of these simpler toys that Lavellan has finished right now - a bulgy-eyed, bandy-legged little dog that is apparently supposed to be a more comical cousin of a mabari war hound (and still, even though the toy's overall shape is fairly straightforward, with your basic head, body, and four legs, the elf has been unable to resist detailing the dog's face, attentively carving every last wrinkle on its snout and every single tooth in its broadly smiling maw).  
  
Setting the funny critter aside, Lavellan has now taken up a small puppet made out of a chunk of darkened, slightly cracked wood, which has been rather sloppily carved to show that this is a woman, who is wearing some semblance of an apron and has pointed ears. There are some faded ink stains smeared across the puppet's round, bald, featureless head, as if someone had tried to give it a face; but for the most part, they have been rubbed off. Its hands, too, are sculpted only sketchily, resembling a pair of thick mittens, one lightly bigger than the other; and its left thumb has been broken off, as has a bit of its cracking 'dress'.  
  
'Where did that come from?' Blackwall finally breaks the silence, watching Lavellan pore over the puppet's lumpy, blank (if you did not count the ink) oval of a face, patiently chiselling the cheekbones and the first inkling of a broad, smoothly sloping nose bridge, typical of his kin.  
  
'It looks like someone chewed on it!'  
  
'Perhaps it was Corypheus' dragon,' the elf responds.  
  
His tone is rather sarcastic, but not as venomous as it tends to get; and his lips are just barely smiling, while his eyes remain focused on the puppet... Though wait - no, there is a sort of flicker in his eyes too, like a reflection of that smile.  
  
'I found it in the snow while looking for your caravan in the mountains,' Lavellan elaborates a few moments later, turning the puppet in his hands to get better lighting on what is supposed to be its hairline. After a little thought, he cuts into the wood, giving the elven maiden a coquettish little curl just above her eyebrows.  
  
'This was the first sign I got that I was on the right track... That people had passed through here. I suppose I wasn't thinking straight... I had been hit on the head, after all. But I picked the little thing up, and put it in my inner pocket, and kept on walking, feeling it against my chest all the time'.  
  
'So... Sentimental value, then?' Blackwall asks, nodding.  
  
Lavellan instantly gets defensive. No surprise here, really: after all, he responded the same way when Blackwall brought up his knack for babysitting... and on every other occasion when someone caught him out of his war hound mode.  
  
'What of it?' he says through his teeth, his eyes flashing an acid sort of green, like the stuff Varric and Sera smear their bolts and arrows with.  
  
'Like I said, I got hit on the head! And besides, if leaders like Cassandra are allowed to fawn over Varric's smutty drivel, why am I not allowed to hold on to something that, at the time, served as a... well, a symbol of my salvation?'  
  
Blackwall raises his hands, as if to show that he is not armed.  
  
'I didn't mean to make fun of you! Maker's balls, why are you always so touchy!'  
  
'It doesn't matter either way', Lavellan continues, frowning over the puppet's misshapen hands. 'I shall be parting with it soon'.  
  
'Why?' the Warden inquires, taken aback. 'You are working so hard to fix it - all to throw it away?'  
  
'Not to throw it away,' the elf corrects him quietly. 'Give it away. I have found out who the puppet's owner is. And I cannot possibly return it in such a sorry state, now can I?'  
  
***  
  
Josephine presses her fingertips against her cheeks; they still feel flushed and warm. How could she have gotten so carried away - how could she have behaved so foolishly! First, she grew rather... exuberantly eager to discuss their latest negotiations and transactions with the Inquisitor - so eager that she dashed out of the vestibule without even checking if he was following her! And then, somehow, the conversation veered off towards the most irrelevant subjects, and almost two hours flew by, with her wandering mind not registering anything except for the way the Inquisitor's eyes lit up whenever he gave her one of his rare smiles. Ah, really - now that is completely unprofessional! Any interest Inquisitor Lavellan might have shown towards her could not have been anything more than professional courtesy; and it certainly has no bearing on her duties as Ambassador whether or not his appearance might... perhaps be found... aesthetically appealing... in a... in a certain way... Hypothetically speaking...  
  
Tossing her head violently from shoulder to shoulder in an attempt to at least somehow recover her wits, Josephine stumbles back towards her desk - and then freezes on the spot, almost dropping her trusty clipboard to the floor.  
  
She is back! Mimi is back! Josephine was certain she had lost her while they were fleeing Haven - she even vented to Leliana one evening, on the way to the war table, about how guilty she was feeling (she reasoned that she might as well, as the Spymaster had found out about her guilty secret long ago). It was selfish of her, wasn't it - missing some silly doll when many others have lost so much more! Mimi was not even the highlight of her collection - as Josephine recollects, she came as an extra piece with the knight and his wife... A little elven servant; a background figure - they had not even bothered to fully sculpt her face. And yet, somehow, the collection felt incomplete without Mimi; it saddened Josephine to open her very special drawer and not see the little elf inside, along with the throng of wooden and porcelain and plush lords and ladies and jesters and bards...  
  
And now - now she has been returned to her... mysteriously... miraculously! The precious darling looks good as new - better even! Why, Josephine would go so far as to say that little Mimi has turned completely unrecognizable! The wood is the same, and she can even make out the ink blotches from the time when, still as a child, she tried to give the doll a face... But Maker, look at those delicate little fingers - just barely touching her apron, which now has wonderfully sculpted, realistic cloth folds, and even some ruffles around the lower hem...  Oooh, and a pocket - which seems to be bulging, as if she is carrying something inside! And look, look at her face - the round curve of her forehead, which smoothly transitions into a small, ever so slightly crooked nose... and the large, almond shaped eyes; and the full lips, with a subtle smile playing on them... and goodness, those pretty locks of hair, carved from wood so carefully, up to the mischievous little one that has escaped her springy braid and is falling right onto her forehead! Sweet Andraste above, she is so overjoyed to see this little wonder that she is ready to forget about professionalism all over again!  
  
With a delighted giggle, the Ambassador sweeps up the long-lost puppet from the desk, where someone has carefully seated it to await her return, and spins giddily across the room... Unaware of the elf that is watching her from the doorway, his green eyes warm and wistful among the strands of greying red hair, reflecting the soft light of his smile.


End file.
